COUNSEL 
ASSIGNED 


00 


3?       RAYMOND  SHIPMAN  ANDREWS 

Author  of  "The  Perfect  Tribute" 


IN  MEMORY  AM 

Alexander  Golistein 


THE   COUNSEL  ASSIGN!  I  > 


HOOKS  BY  MARY  R.  S.  ANDRKWS 

IViu.iHiii.ii  in   rilARl.F.S  SCKIHXKK'S  SONS 

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THE 

COUNSEL   ASSIGNED 


BY 

Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews 

Author  of  •'  The  Perfect  Tribute,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
1912 


Copyright,  HHU,  by  Chnrlcx  Scribncr's  Sons 
Published  March,  1912 


THE    COUNSEL 
ASSIGNED 

A  VERY  old  man  told  the  story. 
Some  twenty  years  ago,  on  a 
night  in  March,  he  walked 
down  the  bright  hallway  of  a  hotel 
in  Bermuda,  a  splendid  old  fellow, 
straight  and  tall;  an  old  man  of  a 
haughty,  high-bridged  Roman  nose, 
of  hawklike,  brilliant  eyes,  of  a  thick 
thatch  of  white  hair;  a  distinguished 
person,  a  personage,  to  the  least  ob 
serving;  not  unconscious  possibly,  as 
he  stalked  serenely  toward  the  office, 
of  the  eyes  that  followed.  An  Ameri 
can  stood  close  as  the  older  man 
lighted  his  cigar  at  the  office  lamp; 
a  red  book  was  in  his  hand. 


773222 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

"ThatVa  pretty  color,"  the  old  fel 
low  said  in  the  assured  tone  of  one 
who  had  always  found  his  smallest 
remarks  worth  while. 

The  American  handed  it  to  him.  As 
he  turned  over  the  leaves  he  com 
mented  with  the  same  free  certainty 
of  words,  and  then  the  two  fell  to 
talking.  Cigars  in  hand  they  strolled 
out  on  the  veranda  hanging  over  the 
blue  waters  of  the  bay,  which  rolled 
up  unceasing  music.  There  was  a 
dance;  a  band  played  in  the  ball 
room;  girls  in  light  dresses  and  of 
ficers  in  the  scarlet  jackets  or  the 
blue  and  gold  of  the  British  army 
and  navy  poured  past. 

The  old  man  gazed  at  them  vaguely 
and  smiled  as  one  might  at  a  field  of 
wind-blown  daisies,  and  talked  on. 
He  told  of  events,  travels,  advent- 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

ures — experiences  which  had  made 
up  an  important  and  interesting  life 

—a  life  spent  partly,  it  appeared,  in 
the  United  States,  partly  in  Canada, 
where  he  was  now  a  member  of  the 
Dominion  Parliament.  His  enthusi 
asm,  it  developed,  was  for  his  pro 
fession,  the  law.  The  hesitating,  deep 
voice  lost  its  weakness,  the  dark  eyes 
flashed  youthfully,  as  he  spoke  of 
great  lawyers,  of  legal  esprit  de  corps. 

"It's  nonsense" —the  big,  thin, 
scholarly  fist  banged  the  chair  arm 
"this  theory  that  the  law  tends  to 
make  men  sordid.  I'm  not  denying 
that  there  are  bad  lawyers.  The  Lord 
has  given  into  each  man's  hand  the 
ultimate  shaping  of  his  career;  what 
ever  the  work,  he  can  grasp  it  by  its 
bigness  or  its  pettiness,  according  to 
his  nature.  Doctors  look  after  men's 
[3] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

bodies  and  parsons  after  their  souls; 
there's  an  opinion  that  lawyers  are 
created  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  purses. 
But  it  seems  to  me"  —the  bright  old 
eyes  gazed  off  into  the  scented  dark 
ness  of  the  southern  night  — "  it  seems 
to  me  otherwise.  It  seems  to  me  that 
the  right  lawyer,  with  his  mind 
trained  into  a  clean,  flexible  instru 
ment,  as  it  should  be,  has  his  spe 
cialty  in  both  fields.  I  am  a  very  old 
man;  I  have  seen  many  fine  deeds 
done  on  the  earth,  and  I  can  say  that 
I  have  not  known  either  heroic-  phy 
sicians  or  saintly  ministers  of  (iod  go 
beyond  what  I've  known  of  men  of 
my  own  calling.  In  fact- 

The  bright  end  of  the  cigar  burned 

a  red  hole  in  the  velvet  darkness,  the 

old  man's  Roman  profile  cut  against 

the  lighted  window,  and  he  was  si- 

IH 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 
lent.  He  went  on  in  his  slow,  author 
itative  voice: 

"In  fact,  I  may  say  that  the  finest 
deed  I've  known  was  the  performance 
of  a  lawyer  acting  in  his  professional 
capacity." 

With  that  he  told  this  story: 

The  chairman  of  the  county  com 
mittee  stopped  at  the  open  door  of 
the  office.  The  nominee  for  Congress 
was  deep  in  a  letter,  and,  unpreten 
tious  as  were  the  ways  of  the  man, 
one  considered  his  convenience;  one 
did  not  interrupt.  The  chairman 
halted  and,  waiting,  regarded  at 
leisure  the  face  frowning  over  the 
paper.  A  vision  came  to  him,  in  a 
flash,  of  mountain  cliffs  he  had  seen 

—rocky,  impregnable,  unchangeable; 
seamed  with  lines  of  outer  weather 

[5] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

and  inner  torment;  lonely  and  grim, 
yet  lovely  with  gentle  things  that 
grow  and  bloom.  This  man's  face 
was  like  that;  it  stood  for  stern  up 
rightness;  it  shifted  and  changed  as 
easily  as  the  shadows  change  across 
ferns  and  young  birches  on  a  crag; 
deep  within  were  mines  of  priceless 
things.  Not  so  definitely,  but  yet  so 
shaped,  the  simile  came  to  the  chair 
man;  he  had  an  admiration  for  his 
Congressional  candidate. 

The  candidate  folded  the  letter  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket;  he  swung  about 
in  his  office  chair.  "Sorry  to  keep  yon 
wailing,  Tom.  I  was  trying  to  figure 
out  how  a  man  can  be  in  two  places 
al  once." 

"If  you  get  it,  let  me  know,"  the 
other  threw  back.  "We've  a  use  for 
that  trick  right  now.  You're  wanted 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

to  make  another  speech  Friday 
night." 

The  big  man  in  the  chair  crossed  his 
long  legs  and  looked  at  his  manager 
meditatively.  "I  didn't  get  it  quite 
figured,"  he  said  slowly.  "That's  my 
trouble.  I  can't  make  the  speech  here 
Friday." 

"Can't  make — your  speech!  You 
don't  mean  that.  You're  joking.  Oh 
I  see — of  course  you're  joking." 

The  man  in  the  chair  shook  his 
head.  "Not  a  bit  of  it."  He  got  up 
and  began  to  stride  about  the  room 
with  long,  lounging  steps.  The  chair 
man,  excited  at  the  mere  suggestion 
of  failure  in  the  much-advertised 
speech,  flung  remonstrances  after 
him. 

"Cartright  is  doing  too  well — he's 
giving  deuced  good  talk,  and  he's  at 
[7] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 
it  every  minute;  he  might  beat  us  yet 
you  know;  it  won't  do  to  waste  a 
chance — election's  too  near.  Cart- 
right's  swearing  that  you're  an  athe 
ist  and  an  aristocrat — you've  got  to 
knock  that  out." 

The  large  figure  slopped  short,  and 
a  queer  smile  twisted  the  big  mouth 
and  shone  in  the  keen,  visionary 
eyes.  "An  atheist  and  an  aristo 
crat!"  he  repeated.  "The  Lord  help 
me!" 

Then  he  sat  down  and  for  ten  min 
utes  talked  a  vivid  flood  of  words.  At 
the  end  of  ten  minutes  the  listener 
had  no  doubts  as  to  the  nominee's 
interest  in  the  fight,  or  his  power  to 
win  it.  The  harsh, deep  voice  stopped; 
there  was  a  pause  which  held,  from 
some  undercurrent  of  feeling,  a  dra 
matic  quality. 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

"We'll  win!"  he  cried.  "We'll  win, 
and  without  the  Friday  speeeh.  I 
can't  tell  you  why,  Tom,  and  I'd 
rather  not  be  asked,  but  I  can't  make 
that  speech  here  Friday."  The  candi 
date  had  concluded — and  it  was  con 
cluded. 

Travelling  in  those  days  was  not  a 
luxurious  business.  There  were  few 
railways;  one  drove  or  rode,  or  one 
walked.  The  candidate  was  poor, 
almost  as  day  laborers  are  poor 
now.  Friday  morning  at  daybreak 
his  tall  figure  stepped  through  the 
silent  streets  of  the  western  city  be 
fore  the  earliest  risers  were  about. 
He  swung  along  the  roads,  through 
woodland  and  open  country,  moving 
rapidly  and  with  the  tireless  ease  of 
strong,  accustomed  muscles.  He  went 
through  villages.  Once  a  woman  busy 
[91 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

with  her  cows  gave  him  a  cup  of 
warm  milk.  Once  he  sat  down  on  a 
log  and  ate  food  from  a  package 
wrapped  in  paper,  which  he  took 
from  his  pocket.  Except  for  those 
times  he  did  not  stop,  and  nine 
o'clock  found  him  on  the  outskirts 
of  a  straggling  town,  twenty  miles 
from  his  starting-point. 

The  court-house  was  a  wooden  build 
ing  with  a  cupola,  with  a  front  ver 
anda  of  Doric  pillars.  The  door  stood 
wide  to  the  summer  morning.  Court 
was  already  in  session.  The  place 
was  crowded,  for  there  was  to  be  a 
murder  trial  to-day.  The  Congres 
sional  candidate,  unnoticed,  stepped 
inside  and  sat  by  the  door  in  the  last 
row  of  seats. 

It  was  a  crude  interior  of  white 
walls,  of  unpainted  woodwork,  of 

[10] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

pine  floors  and  wooden  benches. 
The  Franklin  stove  which  heated  it 
in  winter  stood  there  yet,  its  open 
mouth  showing  dead  ashes  of  the 
last  March  fire;  its  yards  of  stove 
pipe  ran  a  zigzag  overhead.  The 
newcomer  glanced  about  at  this 
stage-setting  as  if  familiar  with  the 
type.  A  larceny  case  was  being  tried. 
The  man  listened  closely  and  seemed 
to  study  lawyers  and  Judge;  he  was 
interested  in  the  comments  of  the 
people  near  him.  The  case  being 
ended,  another  was  called.  A  man 
was  to  be  tried  this  time  for  assault; 
the  stranger  in  the  back  seat  missed 
no  word.  This  case,  too,  came  to  a 
close.  The  District  Attorney  rose  and 
moved  the  trial  of  John  Wilson  for 
murder. 
There  was  a  stir  through  the  court- 


TIIK  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

room,  and  people  turned  on  the 
hard  benches  and  faeed  toward  the 
front  door,  the  one  entrance.  In  the 
doorway  appeared  the  Sheriff  lead 
ing  a  childish  figure,  a  boy  of  fif 
teen  dressed  in  poor,  home-made 
clothes,  with  a  conspicuous  bright 
head  of  golden  hair.  He  was  pale, 
desperately  frightened;  his  eyes  gazed 
on  the  floor.  Through  the  packed 
crowd  the  Sheriff  brought  this  shrink 
ing,  halting  creature  till  he  stood  be 
fore  the  Judge  inside  the  bar.  The 
Judge,  a  young  man,  faced  the  crim 
inal,  and  there  was  a  pause.  It  seemed 
to  the  stranger,  watching  from  his 
seat  by  the  door,  that  the  Judge  was 
steadying  himself  against  a  pitiful 
sight. 

At   length:    "Have  you   counsel?" 
the  Judge  demanded. 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

A  shudder  shook  the  slim  shoul 
ders;  there  was  no  other  answer. 

The  Judge  repeated  the  question, 
in  no  unkind  manner.  "Have  you  a 
lawyer?"  he  asked. 

The  lad's  lips  moved  a  minute  be 
fore  one  heard  anything;  then  he 
brought  out,  "I  dunno — what  that 


is." 


"A  lawyer  is  a  man  to  see  that  you 
get  your  rights.  Have  you  a  law 
yer?" 

The  lad  shook  his  unkempt  yellow 
head.  "No.  .1  dunno — anybody.  I 
hain't  got — money — to  pay." 

"Do  you  wish  the  court  to  assign 
you  counsel?"  He  was  unconscious 
that  the  familiar  technical  terms 
were  an  unknown  tongue  to  the 
lad  gasping  before  him.  With  that, 
through  the  stillness  came  a  sound 

[13] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

of  a  boot  that  scraped  the  floor. 
The  man  in  the  back  seat  rose, 
slouched  forward,  stood  before  the 
Judge. 

44  May  it  please  your  Honor,"  he 
said,  "I  am  a  lawyer.  I  should  be 
glad  to  act  as  counsel  for  the  de 
fence." 

The  Judge  looked  at  him  a  mo 
ment;  there  was  something  uncom 
mon  in  this  loose-hung  figure  tower 
ing  inches  above  six  feet;  there  was 
power.  The  Judge  looked  at  him. 
"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked. 

The  man  answered  quietly:  "Abra 
ham  Lincoln/1 

A  few  men  here  and  there  glanced 
at  the  big  lawyer  again;  this  was 
the  person  who  was  running  for 
Congress.  That  was  all.  A  tall,  gaunt 
man,  in  common  clothes  gave  his 
[14] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

name.  Frontier  farmers  and  back 
woodsmen  in  homespun  jeans,  some 
of  them  with  buckskin  breeches, 
most  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  women 
in  calico  and  sunbonnets,  sat  about 
and  listened.  Nobody  saw  more.  No 
body  dreamed  that  the  name  spoken 
and  heard  was  to  fill  one  of  the  great 
places  in  history. 

The  Judge,  who  had  lived  in  large 
towns  and  learned  to  classify  hu 
manity  a  bit,  alone  placed  the  law 
yer  as  outside  the  endless  procession 
of  the  average.  Moreover,  he  had 
heard  of  him.  "I  know  your  name, 
Mr.  Lincoln;  I  shall  be  glad  to  as 
sign  you  to  defend  the  prisoner,"  he 
answered. 

The  jury  was  drawn.  Man  after 
man,  giving  his  name,  and,  being 
questioned  by  the  District  Attor- 

[15] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

ney,  came  under  the  scrutiny  of  the 
deep  eyes  under  the  overhanging 
brows — eyes  keen,  dreamy,  sad,  hu 
morous;  man  after  man,  those  eyes 
of  Lincoln's  sought  out  the  char- 
act  CM*  of  each.  But  he  challenged  no 
one.  The  District  Attorney  examined 
each.  The  lawyer  for  the  defence  ex 
amined  none;  he  accepted  them  all. 
The  hard-faced  audience  began  to 
glance  at  him  impatiently.  The  feel 
ing  was  against  the  prisoner,  yet 
they  wished  to  see  some  fight  made 
for  him;  they  wanted  a  play  of 
swords.  There  was  no  excitement 
in  looking  at  a  giant  who  sat  still  in 
his  chair. 

The  District  Attorney  opened  the 

case   for   the   People.    lie   told   with 

few  words  the  story  of  the  murder. 

The  prisoner  had  worked  on  the  farm 

[161 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

of  one  Amos  Berry  in  the  autumn 
before,  in  1845.  On  this  farm  was  an 
Irishman,  Shaughnessy  by  name.  He 
amused  himself  by  worrying  the  boy, 
and  the  boy  came  to  hate  him.  He 
kept  out  of  his  way,  yet  the  older 
man  continued  to  worry  him.  On 
the  28th  of  October  the  boy  was  to 
drive  a  wagon  of  hay  to  the  next 
farm.  At  the  gate  of  the  barn-yard 
he  met  Shaughnessy  with  Berry  and 
two  other  men.  The  boy  asked  Berry 
to  open  the  gate,  and  Berry  was 
about  to  do  it  when  Shaughnessy 
spoke.  The  boy  was  lazy  he  said — let 
him  get  down  and  open  the  gate  him 
self.  Berry  hesitated,  laughing  at 
Shaughnessy,  and  the  Irishman 
caught  the  pitchfork  which  the  lad 
held  and  pricked  him  with  it  and 
ordered  him  to  get  down.  The  lad 

[17] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

sprang  forward,  and,  snatching  back 
the  pitchfork,  flew  at  the  Irishman 
and  ran  one  of  the  prongs  into  his 
skull.  The  man  died  in  an  hour.  The 
boy  had  been  thrown  into  jail  and 
had  lain  there  nine  months  awaiting 
trial.  This  was  the  story. 

By  now  it  was  the  dinner  hour — - 
twelve  o'clock.  The  court  adjourned 
and  the  Judge  and  the  lawyers  went 
across  the  street  to  the  tavern,  a 
two-story  house  with  long  verandas; 
the  audience  scattered  to  be  fed, 
many  dining  on  the  grass  from 
lunches  brought  with  them,  for  a 
murder  trial  is  a  gala  day  in  the 
backwoods,  and  people  make  long 
journeys  to  see  the  show. 

One  lawyer  was  missing  at  the  tav 
ern.  The  Judge  and  the  attorneys 
wondered  where  he  was,  for  though 

[18] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

this  was  not  the  eighth  circuit,  where 
Abraham  Lincoln  practised,  yet  his 
name  was  known  here.  Lawyers  of 
the  eighth  circuit  had  talked  about 
his  gift  of  story  telling;  these  men 
wanted  to  hear  him  tell  stories.  But 
the  big  man  had  disappeared  and  no 
body  had  been  interested  enough  to 
notice  as  he  passed  down  the  shady 
street  with  a  very  little,  faded  woman 
in  shabby  clothes;  a  woman  who  had 
sat  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  court 
room  crying  silently,  who  had  stolen 
forward  and  spoken  a  timid  word  to 
Lincoln.  With  her  he  turned  into  one 
of  the  poorest  houses  of  the  town 
and  had  dinner  with  her  and  her 
cousin,  the  carpenter,  and  his  fain- 

Hy- 

"That's  the  prisoner's  mother,"  a 
woman    whispered    when,    an    hour 

119] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

later,  court  opened  again,  and  the 
defendant's  lawyer  came  up  the  steps 
with  the  forlorn  little  woman  and 
seated  her  very  carefully  before  he 
went  forward  to  his  place. 

The  District  Attorney,  in  his  shirt 
sleeves,  in  a  chair  tipped  against  the 
wall,  called  and  examined  witnesses. 
Proof  was  made  of  the  location;  the 
place  was  described;  eye-witnesses 
testified  to  the  details  of  the  crime. 
There  appeared  to  be  no  possible 
doubt  of  the  criminal's  guilt. 

The  lad  sat  huddled,  colorless  from 
his  months  in  jail,  sunk  now  in  an 
apalliy  -a  murderer  at  fifteen.  Men 
on  the  jury  who  had  hardy,  honest 
boys  of  their  own  at  home  frowned 
at  him,  and  more  than  one,  it  may 
be,  considered  that  a  monster  of  this 
sort  would  be  well  removed.  Back  in 
[20] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

her  dark  corner  the  shabby  woman 
sat  quiet. 

The  sultry  afternoon  wore  on.  Out 
side  the  open  windows  a  puff  of  wind 
moved  branches  of  trees  now  and 
then,  but  hardly  a  breath  came  in 
side;  it  was  hot,  wearisome,  but  yet 
the  crowd  stayed.  These  were  people 
who  had  no  theatres;  it  was  a  play 
to  listen  to  the  District  Attorney 
drawing  from  one  witness  after  an 
other  the  record  of  humiliation  and 
rage,  culminating  in  murder.  It  was 
excitement  to  watch  the  yellow- 
haired  child  on  trial  for  his  life;  it 
was  an  added  thrill  for  those  who 
knew  the  significance  of  her  pres 
ence,  to  turn  and  stare  at  the  thin 
woman  cowering  in  her  seat,  shaking 
with  that  continual  repressed  crying. 
All  this  was  too  good  to  lose,  so  the 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

crowd  stayed.  Ignorant  people  are 
probably  not  wilfully  cruel;  prob 
ably  they  like  to  watch  suffering  as 
a  small  boy  watches  the  animal  he 
tortures — from  curiosity,  without  a 
sense  of  its  reality.  The  poor  are  no 
toriously  kind  to  each  other,  yet  it 
is  the  poor,  the  masses,  who  throng 
the  murder  trials  and  executions. 

The  afternoon  wore  on.  The  Dis 
trict  Attorney's  nasal  voice  rose  and 
fell  examining  witnesses.  But  the  big 
lawyer  sitting  there  did  not  satisfy 
people.  lie  did  not  cross-examine  one 
witness,  lie  did  not  make  one  objec 
tion  even  to  statements  very  damag 
ing  to  his  client.  He  scrutinized  the 
Judge  and  the  jury.  One  might  have 
said  thai  lie  was  studying  the  char 
acter  of  each  man;  till  at  length  the 
afternoon  had  worn  to  an  end,  and 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

the  District  Attorney  had  examined 
the  last  witness  and  had  risen  and 
said:  "The  People  rest."  That  side  of 
the  case  was  finished,  and  court  ad 
journed  for  supper,  to  reopen  at  7.30 
in  the  evening. 

Before  the  hour  the  audience  had 
gathered.  It  was  commonly  said  that 
the  boy  was  doomed ;  no  lawyer,  even 
a  "smart"  man,  could  get  him  off 
after  such  testimony,  and  the  cur 
rent  opinion  was  that  the  big  hulk 
ing  fellow  could  not  be  a  good  law 
yer  or  he  would  have  put  a  spoke  in 
the  wheel  for  his  client  before  this. 
The  sentiment  ran  in  favor  of  con 
demnation;  to  have  killed  a  man  at 
fifteen  showed  depravity  which  was 
best  put  out  of  the  way.  Stem,  nar 
row — the  hard-living  men  and  women 
of  the  backwoods  set  their  thin  lips 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

into  this  sentence;  yet  down  inside 
each  one  beat  a  heart  capable  of  gen 
erous  warmth  if  only  the  way  to  it 
were  found,  if  a  finder  with  a  sure 
touch  might  be  laid  on  the  sealed 
gentleness. 

Court  opened.  Xot  a  seat  was 
empty.  The  small  woman  in  her  worn 
calico  dress  sat  forward  this  time, 
close  to  the  bar.  A  few  feet  separated 
her  from  her  son.  The  lawyers  took 
their  places.  The  Sheriff  had  brought 
in  the  criminal.  Tin*  Judge  entered. 
And  then  Abraham  Lincoln  stalked 
slowly  up  through  the  silent  benches, 
and  paused  as  hecame  to  the  prisoner. 
He  laid  a  big  hand  on  the  thin  shoul 
der,  and  I  he  lad  started  nervously. 
Lincoln  bent  from  his  great  height. 

"Don't  you  be  seared,  sonny,"  he 
said  quietly,  but  yet  everyone  heard 
[241 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

every  word.  "I'm  going  to  pull  you 
out  of  this  hole.  Try  to  be  plucky  for 
your  mother's  sake." 

And  the  boy  lifted  his  blue,  young 
eyes  for  the  first  time  and  glanced 
over  to  the  shabby  woman,  and  she 
met  his  look  with  a  difficult  smile, 
and  he  tried  to  smile  back.  The  au 
dience  saw  the  effort  of  each  for  the 
other;  the  Judge  saw  it;  and  the  jury 

—and  Lincoln's  keen  eyes,  watching 
ever  under  the  heavy  brows,  caught 
a  spasm  of  pity  in  more  than  one  face. 
He  took  off  his  coat  and  folded  it  on 
the  back  of  his  chair  and  stood  in  his 
shirt  sleeves.  He  stood,  a  man  of  the 
people  in  look  and  manner;  a  com 
fortable  sense  pervaded  the  specta 
tors  that  what  he  was  going  to  say 
they  were  going  to  understand.  The 
room  was  still. 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

"Gentlemen  of  the  Jury,"  began 
Abraham  Lincoln,  standing  in  his 
shirt  sleeves  before  the  court,  "I  am 
going  to  try  this  case  in  a  manner 
not  customary  in  courts.  I  am  not 
going  to  venture  to  cross  the  tracks 
of  the  gentleman  who  has  tried  it  for 
the  prosecution.  I  shall  not  call  wit 
nesses;  the  little  prisoner  over  there 
is  all  the  witness  I  want.  I  shall  not 
argue;  I  shall  beseech  you  to  make 
the  argument  for  yourselves.  All  I'm 
going  to  do  is  to  tell  you  a  story  and 
show  you  how  it  connects  with  this 
case,  and  then  leave  the  case  in  your 
hands." 

There  was  a  stir  through  the  court 
room.  The  voice,  rasping,  unpleasant 
at  first,  went  on: 

"You,  Jim  Beck — you,  Jack  Arm 
strong— 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

People  jumped;  these  were  the 
names  of  neighbors  and  friends  which 
this  stranger  used.  His  huge  knotted 
forefinger  singled  out  two  in  the 
jury. 

"You  two  can  remember — yes,  and 
you  as  well,  Luke  Green — fifteen 
years  back,  in  1831,  when  a  long,  lank 
fellow  in  God-forsaken  clothes  came 
into  this  country  from  Indiana.  His 
appearance,  I  dare  to  say,  was  so 
striking  that  those  who  saw  him 
haven't  forgotten  him.  He  was 
dressed  in  blue  homespun  jeans.  His 
feet  were  in  rawhide  boots,  and  the 
breeches  were  stuffed  into  the  tops  of 
them  most  of  the  time.  He  had  a  soft 
hat  which  had  started  life  as  black, 
but  had  sunburned  till  it  was  a  com 
bine  of  colors.  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury, 
I  think  some  of  you  will  remember 

1*7] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

those  clothes  and  that  young  man. 
His  name  was  Abraham  Lincoln.'* 
The  gaunt  speaker  paused  and 
pushed  up  his  sleeves  a  bit,  and  the 
jurymen  saw  the  hairy  wrists  and  the 
muscles  of  hand  and  forearm.  Yes, 
they  remembered  the  young  giant 
who  had  been  champion  in  every 
thing  that  meant  physical  strength. 
They  sat  tense. 

'The  better  part  of  a  man's  life 
consists  of  his  friendships,"  the  strong 
voice  went  on,  and  the  eyes  softened 
as  if  looking  back  over  a  long  road 
travelled.  "There  an*  good  friends  to 
be  found  in  these*  parts;  that  young 
fellow  in  blue  jeans  had  a  few.  It  is 
about  a  family  who  befriended  him 
that  I  am  going  to  tell  you.  The  boy 
Abraham  Lincoln  left  his  father,  who 
was,  as  all  know,  a  man  in  the  hum- 
[28] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

blest  walk  of  life,  and  at  twenty-two 
he  undertook  to  shift  for  himself. 
There  were  pretty  pinching  times 
along  then,  and  Abraham  could  not 
always  get  work.  One  fall  afternoon, 
when  he  had  been  walking  miles  on 
a  journey  westward  to  look  for  a 
chance,  it  grew  late,  and  he  realized 
suddenly  that  unless  he  should  run 
across  a  house  he  would  have  to 
sleep  out.  With  that  he  heard  an 
axe  ring  and  came  upon  a  cabin.  It 
was  a  poor  cabin  even  as  settlers' 
cabins  go.  There  was  cloth  over  the 
windows  instead  of  glass;  there  was 
only  one  room,  and  a  little  window 
above  which  told  of  a  loft.  Abraham 
strode  on  to  the  cabin  hopefully.  The 
owner,  a  strong  fellow  with  yellow 
hair,  came  up,  axe  in  hand,  and  of 
him  the  young  man  asked  shelter." 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

Again  the  voice  paused  and  a  smile 
flashed  which  told  of  a  pleasant 
memory. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  Jury,  no  king 
ever  met  a  fellow-monarch  with  a 
finer  welcome.  Everything  he  had, 
the  wood-chopper  told  Abraham,  was 
his.  The  man  brought  the  tired  boy 
inside.  The  door  was  only  five  feet 
high  and  the  young  fellow  had  to 
stoop  some  to  get  in.  Two  children 
of  five  or  six  were  playing,  and  a  lit 
tle  woman  was  singing  the  baby  to 
sleep  by  the  fire.  The  visitor  climbed 
up  a  ladder  to  the  loft  after  supper. 

"lie  crawled  down  next  morning, 
and  when  lie  had  done  a  few  chores 
to  help,  he  bethought  himself  to  take 
advice  from  the  wood -chopper.  He 
asked  if  there  were  jobs  to  be  got. 
The  man  said  yes;  if  lie  could  chop 

[30] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

and  split  rails  there  was  enough  to 
do.  Now  Abraham  had  had  an  axe 
put  into  his  hands  at  eight  years, 
and  had  dropped  it  since  only  long 
enough  to  eat  meals.  *  I  ean  do  that,' 
he  said. 

"'Do  you  like  to  work?'  the  woods 
man  asked. 

"Abraham  had  to  tell  him  that  he 
wasn't  a  hand  to  pitch  into  work  like 
killing  snakes,  but  yet — well,  the  out 
come  of  it  was  that  he  stayed  and 
proved  that  he  could  do  a  man's  job." 

A  whispered  word  ran  from  one  to 
another  on  the  benches — they  began 
to  remember  now  the  youngster  who 
could  outlift,  outwork  and  outwrestle 
any  man  in  the  county.  The  big  law 
yer  saw,  and  a  gleam  of  gratification 
flashed;  he  was  proud  always  of  his 
physical  strength.  He  went  on: 
[31] 


THE  rorxsEL  ASSIGNED 

"For  five  weeks  Abraham  lived  in 
the  cabin.  The  family  character  be 
came  as  familiar  to  him  as  his  own. 
He  chopped  with  the  father,  did 
housework  with  the  mother,  and  ten 
ded  Sonny,  the  baby,  many  a  time. 
To  this  day  the  man  has  a  clear 
memory  of  that  golden-haired  baby 
laughing  as  the  big  lad  rolled  him 
about  the  uneven  floor.  He  came  to 
know  the  stock,  root  and  branch,  and 
can  vouch  for  it. 

"When  he  went  away  they  refused 
to  take  money.  No  part  of  his  life  has 
ever  been  more  light-hearted  or  hap 
pier.  Docs  anybody  here  think  that 
any  sacrifice  which  Abraham  Lin 
coln  could  make  in  after  life  would 
be  too  great  to  show  his  gratitude  to 
those  people?" 

lie  shot  the  question  at  the  jury, 
[3*1 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 
at  the  Judge,  and,  turning,  brought 
the  crowded  court-room  into  its 
range.  A  dramatic  silence  answered. 
The  tiny  woman's  dim  eyes  stared 
at  him,  dilated.  The  boy's  bright, 
sunken  head  had  lifted  a  little  and 
his  thin  fingers  had  caught  at  a  chair 
at  arm's  length,  and  clutched  it.  The 
lawyer  picked  up  his  coat  from  where 
he  had  laid  it,  and,  while  every  eye 
in  the  court-room  watched  him,  he 
fumbled  in  a  pocket,  unhurried,  and 
brought  out  a  bit  of  letter-paper. 
Holding  it,  he  spoke  again: 

4  The  young  man  who  had  come 
under  so  large  a  weight  of  obligation 
prospered  in  later  life.  By  hard  work, 
by  good  fortune,  by  the  blessing  of 
God,  he  made  for  himself  a  certain 
place  in  the  community.  As  much  as 
might  be,  he  has— I  have? — kept  in 

[  33  1 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

touch  with  those  old  friends,  yet  in 
the  stress  of  a  very  busy  life  I  have 
not  of  late  years  heard  from  them. 
Till  last  Monday  morning  this" 
he  held  up  the  letter  "this  came  to 
me  in  Springfield.  It  is  a  letter  from 
the  mother  who  sat  by  the  fire  in  that 
humble  cabin  and  gave  a  greeting  to 
the  wandering,  obscure  youth  which 
Abraham  Lincoln,  please  (iod,  will 
not  forget — not  in  this  world,  not 
when  the  hand  of  death  has  set  his 
soul  free  of  another.  The  woodsman 
died  years  ago,  the  two  older  children 
followed  him.  The  mother  who  sang 
to  her  baby  that  afternoon"  he 
swept  about  and  his  long  arm  and 
knotted  finger  pointed,  as  he  towered 
above  the  court-room,  to  the  meek, 
small  woman  shrinking  on  the  front 
seat — "the  mother  is  there." 
[34] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

The  arm  dropped;  his  luminous  eyes 
shone  on  the  boy  criminal's  drooping 
golden  head;  in  the  court-room  there 
was  no  one  who  did  not  hear  each 
low  syllable  of  the  sentence  which 
followed. 

4  The  baby  is  the  prisoner  at  the 
bar." 

In  the  hot  crowded  place  one  caught 
a  LNi-p  t'n>m  lurk  l.y  t  lir  <l.M»r;  one 
heard  a  woman's  dress  rustle,  and  a 
man  clear  his  throat — and  that  was 
all. 

There  was  silence,  and  the  counsel 
for  the  defence  let  it  alone  to  do  his 
work.  From  the  figure  which  loomed 
above  the  rude  company  virtue  went 
out  and  worked  a  magic.  The  silence 
which  stretched  from  the  falling  of 
Lincoln's  voice;  which  he  let  stretch 
on — and  on;  which  he  hold  to  its  in- 
[351 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

sistent  witchcraft  when  every  soul 
in  the  court-room  began  to  feel  it  as 
personally  harrassing;  this  long  si 
lence  shaped  the  minds  before  him  as 
words  could  not.  Lincoln  held  the 
throng  facing  their  own  thoughts, 
facing  the  story  lie  had  told,  till  all 
over  the  room  men  and  women  were 
shuffling,  sighing,  distressed  with  the 
push  and  the  ferment  of  that  si 
lence. 

At  the  crucial  moment  the  frayed 
ends  of  the  nerves  of  the  audience 
were  gathered  up  as  the  driver  of  a 
four-in-hand  gathers  up  the  reins  of 
his  fractious  horses.  The  voice  of  the 
defendant's  lawyer  sounded  over  the 
throng. 

"Many  times,  as  I  have1  lain  wake 
ful  in  the  night,"  he  spoke  as  if  re 
flecting  aloud,  "many  times  I  have 
[30] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

remembered  those  weeks  of  unfail 
ing  kindness  from  those  poor  people, 
and  have  prayed  God  to  give  me  a 
chance  to  show  my  gratefulness. 
When  the  letter  came  last  Monday 
calling  for  help,  I  knew  that  God 
had  answered.  An  answer  to  prayer 
comes  sometimes  with  a  demand  for 
sacrifice.  It  was  so.  The  culminating 
moment  of  years  of  ambition  for  me 
was  to  have  been  to-night.  I  was  to 
have  made  to-night  a  speech  which 
bore,  it  is  likely,  success  or  failure 
in  a  contest.  I  lay  that  ambition, 
that  failure,  if  the  event  so  prove  it, 
gladly  on  the  altar  of  this  boy's  safety. 
It  is  for  you"  —his  strong  glance 
swept  the  jury—  "to  give  him  that 
safety.  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury,  I  said 
when  I  began  that  I  should  try  this 
case  in  a  manner  not  customary.  I 

137] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

said  I  had  no  argument  to  set  be 
fore  you.  I  believe,  as  you  are  all 
men  with  human  hearts,  as  some  of 
you  are  fathers  with  little  fellows  of 
your  own  at  home — I  believe  that 
you  need  no  argument.  I  have  told 

the   storv;   you    know    the   stoek   of 

«/  '   t/ 

which  the  lad  comes;  you  know  that 
at  an  age  when  his  hands  should 
have  held  school-books  or  fishing- 
rod,  they  held— because  he  was  work 
ing  for  his  mother— the  man's  tool 
which  was  his  undoing;  you  know 
how  the  child  was  goaded  by  a 
grown  man  till  in  desperation  he 
IIMM!  that  tool  at  hand.  You  know 
these  things  as  well  as  I  do.  All  I 
ask  is  that  you  deal  with  the  little 
fellow  as  you  would  have  other  men 
deal  in  such  a  case  with  those  little 
fellows  at  home.  I  trust  his  life  to 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

that  test.  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury,  I 
rest  my  case." 

And  Abraham  Lincoln  sat  down. 

A  little  later,  when  the  time  came, 
the  jury  filed  out  and  crossed  to  a 
room  in  the  hotel  opposite.  The  boy 
>tayr«l.  Smur  ».f  the  lawyers  went  to 
the  hotel  bar-room,  some  stood  about 
on  the  ground  under  the  trees;  but 
many  stayed  in  the  court-room,  and 
all  were  waiting,  watching  for  a 
sound  from  the  men  shut  up  across 
the  way.  Then,  half  an  hour  had 
passed,  and  there  was  a  bustle,  and 
people  who  had  gone  out  crowded 
back.  The  worn  small  woman  in  the* 
front  row  clasped  her  thin  hands 
tight  together. 

The  jury  filed  in  and  sat  down  on 
the  shaky  benches,  and  answered  as 
their  names  were  called,  and  rose  and 
stood. 

[391 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

"Gentlemen  of  the  Jury/'  the 
clerk's  voice  spoke  monotonously, 
"have  you  agreed  upon  a  verdict?" 

"We  have,"  the  foreman  an 
swered  firmly,  woodenly,  and  men 
and  women  thrilled  at  the  conven 
tional  two  syllables.  They  meant  life 
or  death,  those  two  syllables. 

'What  is  your  verdict,  guilty  or 
not  guilty?" 

For  a  second,  perhaps,  no  one 
breathed  in  all  that  packed  mass. 
The  small  woman  glared  palely  at 
the  foreman;  every  eye  watched 
him.  Did  he  hesitate?  Only  the  boy, 
sitting  with  his  golden  head  down, 
seemed  not  to  listen. 

'Not  guilty,"  said  the  foreman. 
With    thai     there    was    pandemoni 
um.    Men  shouted,  stamped,  waved, 
tossed  ii)>  their  hats;  women  sobbed; 
one  or  two  screamed   with   wild  joy. 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

Abraham  Lincoln  saw  the  slim  body 
of  the  prisoner  fall  forward;  with 
two  strides  he  had  caught  him  up 
in  his  great  arms,  and,  lifting  him 
like  a  baby,  passed  him  across  the 
bar  into  the  arms,  into  the  lap,  of 
the  woman  who  caught  him,  rocked 
him,  kissed  him.  They  all  saw  that, 
and  with  an  instinctive,  unthinking 
sympathy  the  whole  room  surged  to 
ward  her;  but  Lincoln  stood  guard 
and  pushed  off  the  crowd. 

44  The  boy's  fainted,"  he  said  loudly. 
"Give  him  air."  And  then,  with  a 
smile  that  beamed  over  each  one  of 
them  there,  "She's  got  her  baby- 
it's  all  right,  friends.  But  somebody 
bring  a  drink  of  water  for  Sonny." 

The  American,  holding  a  cigar  that 
had  gone  out,  was  silent.  The  old 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

man  spoke  again,  as  if  vindicating 
himself,  as  if  answering  objections 
from  the  other. 

44  Of  course  such  a  tiling  could  not 
happen  to-day,"  he  said.  "It  could 
not  have  happened  then  in  eastern 
courts.  Only  a  Lincoln  could  have 
carried  it  oil'  anywhere,  it  may  he. 
But  he  knew  his  audience  and  the 
jury,  and  his  genius  measured  the 
character  of  the  Judge.  It  happened. 
It  is  a  fact." 

The  American  drew  a  long  breath. 
"I  have  not  doubted  you,  sir,"  he 
said.  "I  could  not  speak  because— 
because  your  story  touched  me.  Lin 
coln  is  our  hero.  It  goes  deep  to  hear 
of  a  thing  like  that.  He  hesitated  and 
glanced  curiously  at  the  old  man. 
"May  I  ask  how  you  came  by  the 
story?  You  told  it  with  a  touch  of — 
[42] 


THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 
intimacy — almost  as  if  you  had  been 
there.  Is  it  possible  that  you  were 
in  that  court-room?" 

The  bright,  dark  eyes  of  the  very 
old  man  flashed  hawklike  as  he 
turned  his  aquiline,  keen  face  to 
ward  the  questioner;  he  smiled  with 
an  odd  expression,  only  partly  as  if 
at  the  stalwart,  up-to-date  American 
before  him,  more  as  if  smiling  back 
half  a  century  to  faces  long  ago  dust. 

44 1  was  the  Judge,"  he  said. 


143] 


re. 


VB  20(36 


